Disgustingly Beautiful
by roo17
Summary: Loki, suffering from amnesia, is a child exposed to rapes, torture, and Electroshock Therapy. He escapes, of course, but the mental scars always remain fresh on his mind. Then he meets this person named Thor, who claims to be a god, who says they're really long-lost brothers. With Loki questioning- and losing- his own sanity, things take a disastrous turn.
1. Chapter 1: Dark Beginning

He is disgusting.

Disgusting, disgusting, disgusting.

He is grotesque and hideous and downright _disgusting_.

Used, vile, ugly, revolting.

Nothing about him is nice. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

Tears. The useless creatures run down his face like a crash of angry rhinos, like a raging waterfall. He does not wish for them to appear, to fall so easily, to show the world just how _weak_ and _helpless_ he truly is. The salty drops are not there to save him, no, they are there to humiliate him. They are there to drown him in his anger like a whirling vortex. They are there because he can't do anything else. They are there to slowly suffocate him. They are there to _burn_ him.

Pain. The pain reminds him of flowers for some reason. Roses, he thinks. Roses are his pain and blood. If that's true, he must have several bouquets of roses because everything _hurts_. His body feels as if it's ready to explode, ready to just fall apart, ready to be _ripped in half_.

He didn't ask for this. Really, he didn't. Sure, he caused trouble every now and then, but it wasn't his fault! It runs in his blood to cause it, to achieve it. Mischief is his _life_, it had been since his birth. It coursed through his body like plasma itself; calling him, whispering to him, courting him. He could no longer deny its lovely voice, a voice only he can hear.

He will get away someday. He imagines the day he escapes this hell and the thought nearly brings a smile to him. He would be free. Free as a bird, free as the ocean, free as the wind. If he was free then no one could hurt him ever again. Yes, he likes that thought. Then he'll be strong enough to kill, kill, _kill_ anyone who ever laid their hands on him, to kill everyone who hurt him. And then it will be _him_ laughing at them, at their pain, at their _suffering_, at their _madness._

He lets out a sudden cry at the pain that blossoms in his rear and he suddenly finds himself back in reality. He feels his cheeks are soaked with his torturous tears and his mouth is full of a coppery-tasting liquid. His abuser– his _rapist and torturer_– does not give him any mercy and the nine-year-old is furious at himself for not being able to hold in his screams.

In the back of his mind he wonders if he has a family and if they're searching for him. Surely they must be… right? Or is it true what the other captive children say to him, that no one loves him? That he's a _freak_ and a _monster?_ He starts to believe them, and for good reasons, too. Though he is thin and small, he's stronger than the other children. _Much_ stronger. Yet that doesn't stop them from giving him daily beatings after his daily rapes and tortures. Why is he the only one chained up? Oh, right. He was stronger than the other children. But he is _weak! _He was weak, weak, weak, weak, weak, _weak!_

He really wishes he didn't have amnesia. He desperately wants to remember what the outside looked like, what the wind feels like on his pale skin. He wants to read a book because he loves to read. He wants to see the snow and ice. He loves the cold. He _is_ the cold. Why? Because the cold never affects him. No matter how cold it gets, he never gets cold.

Maybe he is a monster.

Maybe he does deserve this.

.

.

.

Yes… Yes, he does deserve this, doesn't he. They certainly think he deserves it, so why shouldn't he? The rapist is finished with him for the day and he finds himself once again alone in his cell. The other children are in a cell across from him and they all laugh at him, at his _weakness_.

"Having fun, you little whore?"  
"Your mom must be so proud of you; you followed her line of work!"  
"Slut!"  
"Tramp!"  
"Freak!"

He manages to curl himself into a ball and holds his hands over his ears in a desperate attempt to block out their voices. But it never works. _Never, never, never._

"Weakling!"  
"Hey Loki, why don't you tell us one of your famous lies!"  
"Yeah, tell us, tell us!"  
"Monster!"

Before he could start to make a reply, the man is back for him. The child's mind twists the image of the man into something dark. No longer does the assaulter have a face; instead it is a dark, dark mist. A dark mist and a grin. The grin was inhumanly big, literally stretching from ear to ear. The teeth were big and sharp and drool occasionally dripped from the alwaysalwaysalways grinning mouth. And sometimes, _sometimes,_ eyes would appear. They would be tiny slits, though, that were just a dull white. Eyes that mocked him, eyes that judged him. He's dragged out of the cell and he feels his heart start to race. He knows where he's being taken and it frightens him. "No," he whispers quietly. "No, no, no…" But this only makes the inhuman grin bigger, splitting the dark mist in half. The dim dark of the room begins to turn white, white, _white_, and he begins to shake his head. "No," he says again, ignoring the pain of his raw throat. He hated this place, just as much as he hated the rapes, maybe even more. He tried to struggle but he was _weak_ and his body _couldn't move._ He feels a fresh batch of tears start to form in his eyes and he tries to blink them away. He would not be humiliated anymore by those wet creatures. They round a corner and he grabs the edge of the wall. "No, I don't–" The wall is ripped free from his grasp easily and he hears a dark chuckle come from the man above him.

"Try all you want, you'll never escape from me."

_'You'll never escape from me.'_ His body shivers at the words. No… No, he _will_ escape! He will, he will, he will, will, will! And when he does, he promises to come back for this man when he's older, when he's _stronger_, so he can _kill, kill, kill_ him for all the pain and suffering he's caused! But the blood rushes from his face when he hears the all too familiar door opening up and his fear is back. "No, please!" He's strapped down onto a table in the middle of the room and several wires are connected to his head and neck. He pulls against the restraints with what little strength he has left but nothing good comes from it. It only makes his wrists and ankles raw and bloody. "No! Please, no! Not the room with the lightning! Please! No! No! _No–!_" A mouthpiece is shoved into his mouth and before he even has the chance to spit it out, the torture begins.

He screams when his body is filled with electricity, making him convulse and writhe and– _why can't he just die?_ Death would be so much nicer than this. Death, he tells himself, would be a prayer answered. He wanted to escape this hell. And if escaping meant his death, he would gladly welcome it.

He doesn't know how long he stays in the room with the lightning but it feels like hours to him. By the time he's dragged back to his cell and his wrists are chained, his body is limp. His eyes are dull and filled with tears and he feels oh, so, so violated. His mind is like static and he can't seem to focus on anything. He hears nothing a high-pitch ring in his ears and his body is completely and utterly _numb_ from the electricity. He tastes blood in his mouth, blood from his throat because he screamed so much that is raw throat had to give eventually. He can _feel_ the children staring at him, their expressions probably filled with amusement and ridicule. Suddenly, the children are pouring into his cell. They surround him, his body half curled up into a ball.

He looks pathetic.

Truly and utterly _pathetic._

They start to kick and hit him and he can't even protect himself from their attacks. He can hear that man's laughter over theirs and he clenches his teeth. He stares at the wall as the assault continues and, oh, how he wishes he was _strong_! Their attacks stop temporarily and he hears them calling him rude and horrid names and– _why can't he just die?!_

"Loki, Loki, getting raped and hurt  
Harder, harder, face pushed in the dirt  
White room, white room, always full of light  
Watch out, watch out, where lightning strikes  
Screaming, screaming, in a lot of pain  
Crying, crying, tears fall like the rain  
Loki, Loki, always, always thinking  
Loki, Loki, what a little weakling  
Freak show, freak show, tell us a lie  
Monster, monster, go away and die"

Then laughter.

His world is filled with laughter, it's all he can hear now besides the sound of his own screams and sobs. One day, though, he tells himself, it'll be _them_ screaming and _he'll_ be the one laughing. Their bloody corpses fill his vision and blood, blood, blood will be everywhere. Their blood, not his. Their screams, not his. Their pain, not his.

"I will kill you all someday," he whispers, and it's just barely loud enough to catch the attention of the children. "I will kill you all and it'll be you screaming, not I." His voice is quiet and hoarse, but strong and full of promise. His eyes look up and he stares at each face in the crowd. His eyes, he knows, scares them. They're a bright green, unnaturally bright for a human, and the skin under his bright eyes are dark and discolored from lack of sleep. "I will tear each and every one of you apart, limb by limb. Your screams will be the only thing that I hear. Your screams and pleadings and begs. I will kill each of you slowly so you know the pain that I have suffered. And then it will be I who stands above you, laughing and mocking your pain." He can see it now, in their eyes. Fear. He must truly look evil because even the leader of the group– the fourteen-year-old– looks frightened. It only makes him give a bloody and maniacal grin. "I'll dance on your guts and your eyeballs shall pop beneath my crushing force. Your skulls will split and I'll tear out your tongues with pliers. Don't worry, your teeth will come next. I'll break every bone in your bodies until they are nothing but _slime_. But don't worry, I'll keep your ears in _perfect_ condition so you can hear the mockery and the _screams_ and the _laughter_ of everyone who lays eyes on you. You'll hear them scream, 'Dear god, what is that _thing?'_ Yes, I shall show you the true meaning of _pain_!"

The room grows quiet, deathly so, and the only sound that could be heard was water dripping into a small puddle in a rhythmic fashion. The littlest of the children– twin girls of eleven– are on the verge of crying, their bodies trembling and eyes wide in fear. Yes, that's what he wanted. One boy finally speaks, though his voice is shaky. "H-He's kidding…"

"Am I now?" he let out a humorless chuckle, pushing himself up so he could lean against the wall. "Come near me again and I'll _show_ you how much I'm 'kidding'." The eldest of the group hesitates a few steps forward, his eyes hard but fists shaking. _'Yes, be afraid of me. That's right.'_ He reaches down to grab a fistful of the nine-year-olds hair but the second he does, his victim suddenly becomes the predator. The older boy has no time to retract his hand before it's grabbed in a bone-crushing grip and he lets out a hiss of pain. But it doesn't end there. Not three seconds later, there are several loud and sickening cracks.

And then the screaming begins.

The fourteen-year-old pulls away his broken arm, cradling close to his chest. He stares down in horror at his four broken fingers, all bent in unnatural angles. His arm in a similar state. The bone is protruding from the skin and this causes all the other children to start screaming as well. The man rushes in and ushers them out, shoving all back into their cell. The lone child chuckles darkly. He knows what he just did will only ensure further punishment, but it was worth it. Hearing those screams is like music to his ears. But it still did not satisfy. It never would. Not until he was free. The man looks at him, his face twisted in anger. That alwaysalwaysalways grinning mouth is now a deep scowl. He disappeared out of sight before reappearing several minutes later; his hands occupied with a needle and a leather throng. He enters the boy's cell and that grin was back.

"How about we silence that silver-tongue of yours…"

Loki gives a small smile, his eyes are dull and nearly lifeless. His bloodied and bruised body aches all over and any strength he had, left. He is _vulnerable_, unable to fight back. He is _weak_ and _disgusting_ and a _freak_ and a _monster_ and _why couldn't he just die?_ The needle and throng is coming closer and Loki gives a weak chuckle which turns into a soft laugh that verges on the edge of hysteria. "I will kill you all someday," he says, tears rolling down his cheeks. "I will kill you all and I will laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh–"

_'Having fun, you little whore?'  
__'Who could love a monster like you?'  
__'Freak!'  
__'Loki, Loki, what a little weakling!'  
__'Come on, _silver-tongue_, tell us one of your _great _lies!'  
__'Scream for us, Loki! Scream like the bitch you are!'  
__'Monster, monster, go away and die!'  
__'Try all you want, you'll never escape from me.'  
__'How about we silence that silver-tongue of yours…'_

"I will kill you all and laugh–" the threaded needle is at his lips. His smile brightens for a second, his dull eyes letting one last tear fall down his dirty cheek. "–because I am not weak."

His name is Loki.

He has no memory of where he came from or what he did to deserve this cruel hell.

All he does know is that he is weak and disgusting and unloved. He wants to read. He wants to kill. He wants to die.

He knows to fear the lightning, to fear it more than anything.

But, most of all…

He knows that this pain will never leave him.

Never.

**XxXxX  
Okay, so, yeah, I just HAD to publish this. It was driving me nuts. I've been trying publish a torture story, and, well, poor Loki came on the receiving end... i LOVE YOU LOKI! But seriously, I've been thinking about writing another Thor/Avengers fic. Already got part of the first chapter written. It's basically about Loki getting his lips sewn (dear gods, I've gotten such a bad obsession over sewn mouths now...) and he, along with Thor, go to Midgard where they meet the Avengers. **

**Anyway, I'm thinking about continuing this instead of leaving it a one-shot. What do you guys think? And should this be a non-pairing story, or a Thorki story?**

**(P.S: To all my followers who read my One Piece stories: I'd update them but... But... Dear gods, I lost my laptop... It wasn't stolen, _I just freaking LOST it. UGH. _I feel so_ embarrassed _to admit it, but, yeah... The moment I find it, I am updating three of my stories. This, I promise!)**

**So please, leave a review! It would my life, like, a billion times happier. :D**

_Your shy ice elemental,  
~roo the mischievous psycho_


	2. Chapter 2: Anniversary

**Summary: **_He is disgusting. He is a monster. Loki, suffering from amnesia, is a child exposed to rapes, torture, and Electroshock Therapy. He escapes, of course, but the mental scars always remain fresh. Then he meets this person named Thor, who claims to be a god, who says they're really long lost brothers. With Loki questioning– and losing– his sanity, things take a disastrous turn._

**Warning: Mentions of rape, torture, swearing, ooc, AU (I guess…?), maybe some disturbing thoughts...**

**Pairings: Thorki. C: **(And for those of you who don't know what Thorki is... **Thor x Loki **;D)

**Disclaimer: If I owned Loki, I think I would die of happiness. Literally. By the gods, I mean, have you **_**seen**_** him? He's, like, only the definition of SEXY. And CUTE. And– *cough* Sorry, no more rambling. Onto the story!**

**Chapter Two: Anniversary**

**x_x_x_x_x  
**

* * *

Bright green eyes scan their surroundings and they pick up nothing but dull, gray buildings and humans who walk around almost aimlessly to and fro. Really, what was he expecting? For chaos to pop up out of nowhere and tear down a building or two before quietly slipping away to create another scandalous ploy to play out in future? His eyes scan over everything, taking in every little detail that comes into his line of sight. Sometimes he thinks he's become overly-paranoid. No one was going to randomly come up to him, kidnap him, and torture him for days on end. But he still couldn't help but be wary of his surroundings every time he walked outside.

He walks down the street, his back straight, his posture neat. His suit is speckless and his hair is slicked back. To anyone who passed, he seemed like just another successful business man; just another Somebody walking down Life's Golden Path. A woman sends him a smile, her cheeks temporarily turning red as his green eyes glance at her brown ones. A man in a business suit talking on his cellphone gives him a nod, stepping to the side to let him pass. If only they knew of the darkness that he held in his mind, in his heart, in his soul…

In truth, he is not a Somebody; he is a Nobody. He is not a successful business man and he most certainly is _not_ walking down one of Life's Golden Paths. Instead, he is walking down Life's Blackened Path; the path he had been forced to go down at the young age of nine. A path he could never get off of, even if he wanted to. He looks back at the woman and she is not smiling now, as if she knows what he _truly_ is. She glares instead, griping her bag tightly as she briskly walks away. The man that had stepped to the side to let him pass has now changed his mind and rudely shoulders his way through the crowd, his voice now considerably louder as he yells on his phone. He continues to walk and, even though his posture is tall and screaming confidence, his eyes remain on the ground once he knows no one will attack. But even while he stares at the ground– occasionally looking up to glance at his surroundings–, he can see their expressions in his peripheral vision. The people around him are not generous towards him though they do not know him.

Why?

Because he is different.

He has always been different.

He pulls his mind back to his surroundings and he finds himself in front of one of the few places he feels comfortable: the library. He enters and no one looks at him because he is a Nobody and they are all Somebodies. But when their eyes do land on him, they are harsh with judgement and distrust. He is used to this, though, and continues on to where his book of interest lies in wait. He always find the non-fiction area to be so quiet, even more so than the adult-fiction section. He glides over to the 290's, his steps are light and quiet but full of purpose. He stops, his eyes falling on the fourth shelf down and–

Oh, well, this is new.

His book is checked out.

He shrugs this off and turns on his heels. No matter, it wasn't a big deal. The only reason he came to borrow it again was because the copy he ordered wouldn't be in his hands for another two days. He scans his mind for any other books he might be interested in and his brain conjures up the name of an author.

Well, it _had_ been a while since he read anything written by Edgar Allan Poe…

His fingers slide over and grip the hardcover of The Complete Tales and Poems of Edgar Allan Poe. Looking at the thickness of the book, he figures he should get another book as well. He is a fast reader, after all, and has been known to go through several books a day if in the mood. He finds himself in front of the Stephen King section and his fingers twitch on the spine of Bag of Bones. He grabs the book and makes his way to the checkout counter were he quickly checks his books out.

The walk back to his house is uneventful and he finds himself both relieved and disappointed by this. It had been some time since he had seen even a spark of mischief in his life. Part of him longs to fill that empty void, to start trouble and see the chaos that would ensue. But the other part of him tells him that was a bad idea, that it will lead to horrible punishments that will leave him begging for death. He knows, he _knows_ that isn't true; that his mind is overreacting. Yet, he still can't help but _believe_ it. Releasing a sigh, he enters his small house; placing the books on the table as he shuts and locks the door behind him.

It is a small house, holding two bedrooms, a kitchen, a living, a bathroom, a basement, and a very small attic. The only reason he was able to afford the house was because the previous owners had thought the house to be haunted and, well, when a house is claimed to be haunted, no one wants to move in. Except Loki, he didn't mind so much. Truth be told, he hadn't seen one spark of paranormal activity in the building since he moved in five years ago. He walks to the bedroom and opens up his dresser, pulling out a pair of comfortable sweatpants and a shirt that was easily two sizes too big for him. Normally he would have thrown something as such away in an instant.

But the shirt made of _cotton_.

How could he toss something so comfortable?

Not too mention it was a light olive green.

He likes green.

As he changes in the bathroom, he can't help but feel… off. Like he was forgetting something, something important. He makes his way into the living room where a calendar is hanging and sees what the date is. _June 3rd_, it reads and he stands up.

_'Ah, that's what I was forgetting…'_

Today was the twentieth anniversary of his escape.

He sits down in his comfortable reclining chair and stares at the wall. _'Has it really been twenty years already…?' _He remains seated for a moment before swiftly getting up. It seems, he found, that his stomach suddenly yearns for tea and pudding. He doesn't keep it waiting.

_x_x_x_x_x_

_He had reached a breaking point._

_Both physically and mentally, he had reached a breaking point._

_His sanity, he found, left him the day his mouth was sewn shut. Not only had the attacker taken away his dignity and innocence, but he also took his ability to **scream**. Loki had one thing that kept him going, and it had been his ability to speak. His words, he found, were a great weapon. Yet, he had been ripped of that as well. His mind had lapsed not long after the sewing and all the tortures seemed to blur together. After that came his physical breaking point. His body wouldn't move at all. Breathing had become such a hard task and he wondered why he even continued to try. He was almost positive the wounds his body was sporting were infected. They had been cleaned but a few times and he could **feel** the infection. It was sickening._

_Disgusting, gross, vile, corruptive, sickening, **disgusting**._

_It felt like puss ran through his veins and his blood was suddenly nothing more than squirming maggots eating away at his insides. He lifted his head just high enough to look over his exposed chest. Four drops of acid had burnt his skin away and left the epidermis in a horrible state. He was almost tempted to tear pieces of the ragged flesh off but found he was too weak to move. He could feel them, the maggots, crawling on his chest. They lived in his acidic wounds and they made his skin around the burns turn to mush, goo, **slime**._

_He laughed maniacally._

_His abused throat was raw and the sound that emanated from it sounded like sandpaper rubbing against a rough surface. The stitches that held his mouth shut suddenly stretched as he smiled and the pain forced him to close his mouth again. He could taste blood in his mouth and could feel it run down his chin, but this only made him laugh harder behind clenched teeth. He didn't care anymore. Why should he? He was going to die anyway, might as well have a good laugh before then, right? He felt as if he had been placed in a straightjacket and his mind was being picked at by centipedes and wasps. The stinging was severe and he suddenly began to cough violently, the action making the stitches stretch even more. He used what little strength he had to roll onto his side and blood continued to ooze from his mouth._

_He had nearly choked on his own blood._

_He had no idea why, but the thought brought clarity to his mind. Here he was, a nine-year-old boy, bloodied, battered, and tortured with no way of escaping and he was **laughing**._

_That, he found, frightened him._

_He hadn't even realized that his mind had begun to shut down and madness started to take over. But that madness was a **release**, an escape for him. Should he not welcome it with open arms? His mind was at war with itself. He wanted to escape, but he wanted to be aware at the same time. His brain felt like it was going to explode and the urge to laugh and laugh and laugh began to fade in again. The puss running through his blood suddenly turned to glass, sends bolts of pain throughout his entire body. He bit down hard on his tongue to suppress a scream. _'It's not real, it's not real, it's not real, it's not real, notrealnotrealnotrealnotreal notrealnotre–'

_'Of course it's real, you idiot! Maggots are eating away at your body, turning you into a pile of disgusting slime! Centipedes and wasps are picking apart your brain! Spiders are crawling behind your eyes, making webs and nesting thousands of poisonous eggs that are moments away from hatching! A snake slithers through your throat, constricting around your airway every passing second; bringing you closer and closer to death! Another snake, one that sports a thorny vine around its body, encircles your heart! It will squeeze the organ until it pops! You will no longer have a heart, you will no longer live! Your soul is nothing but a home for killer bees, worms, and other vile creatures! Roaches crawl under you skin, can you not feel it all? Can you not **feel** it?! This was your wish! This is what you have been praying for! An end, an escape! *Death*! Whoever said death was a beautiful thing was correct in every sense. It **is** beautiful, is it not? Look, the darkness is already swallowing you! Wrapping around you like a caterpillar's silk cocoon! You will leave behind this world and enter the next as a new being, a new creature! Do not fight it. **Embrace** it. It is your fate, Loki. This, you must know. You were never meant to get far in this world. Life is a joke, and you, my pathetic friend, are its punchline.'_

_"You're wrong," Loki whispered, his eye shut tightly and hands clasped over his ears. His lips screamed with pain every time he moved them, but he **had** to answer the voice. He **had** to. "You're wrong, you're wrong, you're wrong."_

_'Am I, now… Think about it. What have you done to deserve this, huh? Sure, you played a joke or two; but you have **never** done anything to deserve this except **exist**. Life has pinpointed you to be its punching bag.' The voice seemed to stop and Loki was grateful. His mind was racing and hurting and he couldn't focus on anything. His sanity was trying to make a comeback– and he was trying to his best to help– but it wasn't very easy when he couldn't concentrate. His body began to ease and the fingers of exhaustion were nearly upon him. He hadn't slept for five days. Honestly, he had hardly slept at all since he had been captured. But the voice wouldn't let him go, oh no, not just yet. It snaked its way back into his mind, its voice smooth as silver. 'Life isn't worth living. It is to be taken and beaten and wrestled and formed in your image. That's where the meaning lies. In what you can twist life into. For those who just endure life, yeah, it is a very nasty joke. But for those who form it with their will, the joke is on those who get in the way.'_

_"I must be crazy," Loki muttered. "You're beginning to make sense."_

_'Because I **am** sense. Loki, the gods are playing with you, they **want** to see you suffer.'_

_Loki furrowed his brows. "Gods…?"_

_'Yes, Loki. You know who I'm talking about.'_

_"But I–"_

_'They scorn you. They hate you. You have no place to call home and they'll do everything in their power to make sure is stays that way. Like I said before, Life is a joke, and you are its punchline.'_

_"Go away," Loki whispered. "Go away, go away."_

_'I will never go away. Never.'_

_"Go away, go a–"_

_"Shut up, brat!" A kick to his already abused back made him cry out in both pain and surprise. Another kick found its way to his ribs and he let out another cry. He was dizzy and hurting and insane and– why couldn't he just die? "Worthless scum. Get up." But Loki couldn't. His energy was drained. He had no strength to do anything. "I said **get up**."_

'I can't,'_ he thought. _'I just… I can't.'

_"Are you **deaf**? Get up!" More kicks assaulted his broken body and he wondered if this time death would finally come for him. His back was lined with whiplashes and lacerations while his chest was disfigured with acidic burns. Bruises littered his body and he had absolutely no doubt in his mind he had a lot of broken bones. A well placed kick had him gasping for air, but with every breath he took, it burned. Some organs were probably bruised as well. "Piece of shit! I said get up, goddamn it! Fucking get up, you pathetic weakling!"_

_But he couldn't._

_Because he was **weak**._

_No, wait… that wasn't right._

_'Weakling, weakling! What a little weakling!"  
__'Pathetic weakling!'  
__'Loki, Loki, what a little weakling!'_

_He clenched his teeth and a sudden surge of anger ran through him. He. was. **not**. **weak**! He rolled over to face the man and kicked out with his newfound strength. He heard something snap and the man fell to the ground before him with a scream. Loki let out a cry of absolute rage as he jumped onto the man and reached for his throat. Unfortunately, the man saw this coming and pulled a baton from his belt; swinging it with everything he had. A sickening crack echoed through the chamber and Loki was thrown to the ground with his vision swimming. Blood raced from the new wound on his temple and reached up to touch it. His skull had a deep fracture, he knew, and he would have given a curse if not for the pain that rang through his mind. He groaned as he sat up, his eyes concentrated on the man across his cell. The man was limping towards him, his face twisted in rage and disgust._

_Fear came first._

_The next, anger._

_And last, insanity._

_The man was halfway across the cell when Loki did something that even had the perpetrator stopping in his tracks with a look of horror on his face. Loki reached up and grabbed one end of the leather throng that held his mouth shut. Then, in the most ungraceful way, he **pulled**. The knot went through every hole painstakingly slow, and Loki couldn't help but let the tears– those damn creatures he absolutely **detested**– fall from his eyes. Blood flowed from the wounds like silk ribbons and it was obvious he was losing too much blood too quickly. But he did not stop. Halfway through, Loki's muffled sobs became short, hysterical laughs. His green eyes were wide and unfocused and practically **screaming** death._

_The knot exists the last hole and Loki is the true image of bloodied maniac on the very verge of having a psychotic breakdown. Scratch that, this **was** his psychotic breakdown. The pain, Loki finds, is unworldly, and he can't help but relish the fact that he felt so **alive** at the moment, yet, at the same time, felt so close to **death** as well. The man's nearly upon him now and the fear returns to the child with full force. He stands, his back pressed against the wall, and he shrinks in on himself; raising his arms as if to protect himself. The hand is coming closer now, closer, closer, closer! Fear continues to rise and, suddenly, Loki shouts–_

_"**Get away from me!**"_

_A bright flash of green blinded the male before a powerful hit to his stomach sent him flying across the cell. The small boy panted, his breath ragged, and his vision blurred even more. He felt drained and stared into space, a look of shock and confusion on his face. "What… what just…?" He looked down at his own trembling and dirty hands as if they held the answer. His eyes looked up and he was shocked to see the male hunched over, a rapidly expanding pool of blood surrounding him. The boy inched closer, leaning heavily on the cell's bars as he did. As he approached, he noticed the man's stomach had a horrible looking wound to it._

_"What… What have you…" He rasped, coughing blood as his head lolled back. "What are… you…"_

_That was a question even Loki didn't know the answer to._

_The boy watched as the man took his last breath and went to exit his cell, hesitating as he did. His world was spinning, his body felt like its about to fall apart from pain and exhaustion, his mind was on the verge of exploding, and he felt oh so **tired**. But he pressed on, and took his first step out. He felt happiness wash over him, along with victory and relief and–_

_"Hey, freak! What are you doing out of your cell?"_

_"What's the loser doing now?"_

_"The whore's been let loose!"_

_Happiness vanished and was replaced with detest and Loki found himself opening the door the children's cell. They showed no fear at all, but they did look disturbed. Loki wondered why until he suddenly remembered the blood running down his chin and the acidic wounds on his chest. He heard the word 'monster' whispered several times and– _'you know what? Fuck it.'_ He smiled, but it was not a frightening one nor a mad one._

_It was a sincere one._

_The children were confused. He didn't blame them. None of them spoke a word and when one finally opened their mouth to do so, Loki acted._

_Lifting up his hand, he concentrated with everything he has._

_It proved to be way too much concentration because the next thing he knew, people were **exploding**._

_Literally._

_Innards and blood flew everywhere and he slightly flinched when part of someone's small intestine landed on his shoulder and another's eyeball smacked him in the leg. A jaw grazed his arm and a toe bounced off his stomach. Luckily only a little blood landed on him and he's more than pleased with the outcome. In truth, he didn't want to make them explode– honestly, he didn't even know he could **do** that–, he had only wanted to kill them quickly. He knew he promised to make them suffer, but he just couldn't do that. He just… couldn't. Not to them, even though part of him longed for it. He hadn't been the only one tortured after. They had been whipped daily, their backs had shown that, but at least they had each other. Loki? Had no one._

_But after that powerful attack– he wondered what it **is **exactly– he felt almost completely drained and his world spun even more. He felt himself tremble horribly and prayed he had enough strength to make it out of this hellhole. He walked until the darkness of the room began to turn white, white, white again. He came to a fork in the hallways and he looked to the left, his face paling even more as he saw an all too familiar door staring at him._

_The room with the lightning._

_Fear crept into his mind again and he quickly turned around to make sure no one was going to drag him into that horrible room. To make him suffer. To make him do a deadly dance and a shrill song with the lightning. He turned right and walked as fast as he could away from the door. He held onto the white wall, smearing it with rose petals of blood. It made him think of an old story he read– did he read this story, or did he make it up?– about a girl who colored white roses red with paint to suffice a roaring queen of hearts. _'Wonderland. Lewis Carroll,'_ his mind responded. He turned down a few more hallways before he saw a glowing red sign._

_**EXIT**  
_

_His heart pounded like a horse's hooves and excitement coiled around him like a snake. Freedom screamed for him like a wolf howling to the full moon awaiting its pack to arrive. And the ruler of the dead seemed to push him away with gentle hands, push him towards the light that is Life, not the darkness of Death. He threw open the emergency exit door and nothing prepared him for the blinding light of day that assaulted his eyes. He had been so accustomed to the dark and artificial light. Sunlight, he found, was much, **much** brighter. He no longer felt cold and the warm sunlit rays made his pale skin glow. He fell to his knees and finally opened his eyes. He was met with rocks, a cliff, and the ocean. He smiled, taking in a deep breath of the salty air. The sound of the ocean roaring as it crashed into the waves made his eyes water. The sound of gulls cawing, the feeling of the wind blowing through his hair, the scenery of nature… He found himself crying tears of joy._

_He was **free**._

_Free, free, free!_

_He would die free._

_He fell onto the jagged rocks below him but he didn't care about the pain it brought to his wounded back. The sun continued to caress his skin and he smiled. "I did it," he whispered. "I'm free."_

_The light of the outside world began to fade away into darkness and, this time, Loki didn't mind it so much._

_x_x_x_x_x_

Loki sat at the kitchen table as he waited for his kettle to whistle, his mind still lost in the memory. He remembers he had awoken two days later to find nearly all his wounds had healed but he had been left with a mean sunburn which, luckily, healed just as fast. He raises his hand and green sparkles dance in his palm. He had finally found out what it was called. _Magic_. He smiles and his magic ceases. He can feel it, though, coursing through his veins. It sparks, asking to be used. "It has been a while since I've used you… and, well, let's face it; this neighborhood is in desperate need of some excitement." He can't help but grin at his words. Maybe one of his neighbors lawnmowers will come to life and walk itself outside and take down Ms. Gerismawl's neglected garden…

Yes, he likes the idea of that! But, first, pudding and tea!

But as he pours the water from his whistling kettle, he can't help but think back to that man's question. _"What are you?"_ That was a question he had been asking himself for the past twenty years. Especially last year when he had exhausted himself of magic– he had wanted to see how much magic he had and found he held quite a _lot_– and when he tried to do one last spell, he had turned _blue_. And when in this _blue_ form, he could summon ice easily. He also found his skin was cold like ice– which explained why he never got cold–, but when exposed to heat, it turned back to its normal pale state.

Although, he had to admit, that form made an excellent halloween costume.

He had managed to scare eleven adults, sixteen teenagers, and over fifty children.

Yes, that had definitely been a successful holiday.

He scoots his chair in and looks down at his meal. Pudding and tea. Honestly, it couldn't get any better than that. He only gets half through his pudding a quarter through his tea when a knock at the door catches his attention. He groans as he stands up, making his way from the kitchen to the door. He didn't like being interrupted while eating pudding and drinking tea. It ruined the whole 'peaceful Loki' time. Another knock, this one more eager sounding, and Loki growls. "Give me a second," he hisses loudly. He can tell by the knock it's definitely not a girl scout looking to sell cookies that's knocking at his door. "Honestly, if this is another Jehovah Witness, or surveyor, I swear…" Another knock and– really? Are they _that _impatient? He wonders if it's someone who's come to kidnap him. Or maybe rob him. Or kill him. Either ways, they wouldn't leave this house alive if that was the case.

He reaches the door and throws it open. "_What?_" He snaps, his eyes narrow and dark. (Okay, so he hadn't been able to sleep a peaceful night since he could remember. At least the darkness under his eyes wasn't extreme. In fact, he kind of likes it. It makes him look more menacing and threatening.)

The man at the door is large and big and has many toned muscles and Loki starts to wonder if he should run. The large male is grinning practically from ear to ear and his golden hair shines in the sun's light. He is oddly dressed and Loki can only guess that he's wearing armor. Yeah, it's definitely armor. And a bright red cape. Odd. He didn't hear of any renaissance fairs coming to town. The man's eyes are bright like the blue skies and clear like the sea. Looking over him, Loki can only think of one word.

Golden. This man is practically _glowing_ the golden color.

It irks Loki to no end and he suddenly has the urge to punch this man in the face.

The large man opens his arms wide as if expecting a hug and his grin seems to brighten and widen even more. "Brother, I found you!"

Loki slams the door in the stranger's face.

**X_x_X_x_X  
****I just want to say thank you to those who took the time to review! Really, it means so much to me! In fact… Cyber pudding for everyone who reviews! :D Sorry for any mistakes I made. Literature isn't my strong point. It's actually one of my weaker points…. Don't worry, though. Loki may **_**seem**_** better but, let's be honest, you never fully recover from something like that. His mind'll definitely be going down the drain again. Just gotta be patient. c:**

**Sorry about, like, exploding the kids and all... But it was kind of called for in order for the plot to advance. P:**

**And, just for the hell of it all, I'll throw in two trivia questions! Why? Because I like trivia. Give me a break. Okay, first one:**

**The voice in Loki's head says, "**_**Life isn't worth living. It is to be taken and beaten and wrestled and formed in your image. That's where the meaning lies. In what you can twist life into. For those who just endure life, yeah, it is a very nasty joke. But for those who form it with their will, the joke is on those who get in the way.**_**" Without looking this up, who can tell me where– and maybe who, too– this quote is from? Here's a hint: It's from a T.V. show.**

**Second question:**

**"**_**His heart pounded like a horse's hooves and excitement coiled around him like a large snake. Freedom screamed for him like a wolf howling to the full moon awaiting its pack to arrive. And the ruler of the dead seemed to push him away with gentle hands, push him towards the light that is Life, not the darkness of Death.**_**" Can any of you tell me who this is in reference to? I know a lot of you can, since you're probably Loki fans. But if you don't, well, **_**GO READ YOUR MYTHOLOGY! X3**_

**Okay, now that that's over, please leave a review? Please? You'd make me a very happy kitty!**

**Anyway, have a nice day/night!**

_**Your shy ice elemental,  
**__~roo the mischievous psycho_


End file.
